Stay strong
by poetrygirl22
Summary: It was a simple mission. Nobody was meant to get hurt. When Porthos gets captured, Aramis has to deal with the alleged death of his brother in all but blood. Aramis and Porthos both have to be strong, but in different ways.
1. Why?

All rights go to the BBC. I don't own these people!

Drip. Drip. Drip. The noise permeated through a thick fog before reaching his ears. Drip. Drip. Drip. Porthos' head was throbbing to the beat of his heart. Drip. Drip. Drip. His throat felt like sandpaper, his mouth moving but no words coming out. "It's okay big guy, it's okay." He forced his eyes open, the speaker illuminated in the flickering light. He was a small man, with a thin mouth and large, tired eyes. He seemed to be moving, beckoning someone over. A young woman peered down at him. "Don't move to fast, that's it, take your time." Pain rippled through his arms as he tried to pull himself off the floor. The man and woman helped him sit up, before kneeling on either side of him. "Ar-Aramis?" There were other prisoners here, who all seemed awake. Porthos prayed to every god that Aramis is safe, and Athos. But still a tiny part of him wanted not to be alone here. "You're the only musketeer here." Relief surged through him at the man's words, but there was still that voice in the back of his head. The voice that said he was alone.

Dully, Porthos realised he was in a cell. It was large, and smelt of blood and tears. His hands were chained together, chains running from his ankles into the wall. He could move them a little but not much. A small plate of food and a jug of water lay before him, and the woman gently raised the water to his lips. Managing to force down the water, he glanced around him. The man had a strip of fabric tied on his arm, probably in place of a bandage. The woman would have been beautiful if it weren't for a large, purple bruise over her left eye. She was wearing a ripped up red dress that would probably have been expensive once. Suddenly the door was shoved open at the other side of the cell, and the man backed away from him.

"Stay strong, you can't fail." Hissed the woman before a guard shoved her aside. There were three of them. One leant forward and gripped his arm before pulling him up. He felt his dislocated shoulder click back into place as he let out a roar of pain. The darkness crept up his vision before he blacked out.

* * *

They searched the battlefield for nearly a week. There was still no sign of him. No sign of Porthos. Aramis wiped his eyes again, and desperately called his name. His voice was hoarse. He never got an answer. He sat with Athos in silence. Athos hadn't drunk for a week. He blamed himself. Aramis hadn't smiled in a week. He blamed himself. Athos offered to keep watch, Aramis didn't argue. As he lay the battle played out in his mind. Porthos had got them lost, and Aramis had been hungry and tired. He'd yelled at his brother, called him awful things. His words echo around his head now.

"Excuse of a Musketeer."

"I wish you were never born."

"Son of a…" Aramis cradled his head in his arms. He had insulted Porthos' mother. His mother who had been a slave, who had been abused all her life. Who had died to save him. He said Porthos wasn't worthy as a musketeer, had called his stupid. Told him he was worthless, he'd prefer it if he was dead. And now Porthos was gone. And he'd never felt so alone. He raised his face to the heavens and asked for it to be him instead. For Porthos to be here, and for him not to be. Please, please, please. He'd lost a brother and it was all his fault. There wasn't even a body he could bury. Porthos had died to save him. It was all his fault.

They rode back in silence. They rode through the gates into Paris and stood before Treville's desk. Athos told Treville what happened. Aramis didn't say a word. He saw Treville bury his head in his hands, reaching out for some ale. Treville didn't drink at work. He frowned on it. Treville dismissed them, telling them to take as long as they needed. Athos sent him home. But his own head was a terrible place to be right now, and it probably always will be. And he deserves it. He waits by the corner and follows Athos, turning countless corners. The buildings around him slowly grew shabbier and smaller. They entered the Court and the crowd parts in front of them. "You shouldn't have come." The words are accompanied by Athos' famed sideways look. He remembered the three of them laughing about that look. There wouldn't be three of them anymore. He stayed silent. She appeared in front of them. Her eyes were red and puffy, and her hands were trembling. Flea wasn't the Queen of Thieves anymore, she was just a frightened girl who didn't want the rumours to be true. And they were there to confirm her worst fear. Athos nodded his head, staring at the ground. Flea sank to the ground, tears running down her face. She looked up at them, before saying, "Why did it have to be him?"


	2. Not here

**I still don't own these people.**

When Porthos woke the first thing he felt was something very hard and cold against his nose. His head hurt, and his shoulder hurt, and every muscle hurt. His face also seemed to be pressed against a concrete table. He heard a cold laugh from somewhere above him, and the memories came crashing back. He remembered the battle, and the words yelled just before it. He remembered the bruised woman and the bandaged man. He remembered those words, stay strong. Stay strong. He realised the man was speaking, and forced his head to the side. He took in the man in the bloodied tunic with an evil smile, as if he'd come straight from a child's nightmare. "You go to the court a lot." It was a statement, not a question. "You are in the presence of the king. You must know all the secret passages in and out. Must know about hidden tunnels and servant's entrances." The man's voice was cold and ruthless. Suddenly he realised what stay strong meant, what the bruise and the bandage meant.

"I won't betray my country." His voice sounded stronger than he felt.

"Always so noble. It's always the same with Musketeers. But they break eventually."

"I'd rather die than help you." He growled at the man.

"Really? Such a surprise. Nobody's ever said that to me before." His mocking voice drew farther away. Porthos followed him with his eyes. He crossed over to a wall of the most brutal objects he had ever seen. His hand skimmed over different knives, guns, swords and even, perhaps the most menacing of all, a saw. His hand settled over a long knife, then he picked it up and weighed it in his hand. The man crossed over to him, kneeling down so his face was level with Porthos', and whispered, "Are you feeling patriotic?" As he went to answer the knife sliced into his skin and his words turned into a roar. The chains around him held him still as he struggled desperately to free himself. The blade withdrew for a moment, and Porthos exhaled a breath he hadn't known he was holding. "Tell me and you may go free."

"Never!" The word was breathless and frantic. The man laughed and his blade sliced back into the Musketeer's arm. Porthos worked to keep his breathing steady, thinking of anything but the pain in his arm.

"I shouldn't go to quickly," The man hissed, the words no louder than a whisper. But they seemed to seep into his brain. "You're going to be here for quite a while. I mean, however long it takes you to speak those secrets." As he spoke the knife still moved, cutting the skin. "Nobody's going to rescue you, are they? Usually I would be guarding against your comrades, but I don't think they'll be coming."

"You should fear them." His voice croaked, his mouth dry.

"Oh, really? I heard what Aramis said about you. He won't risk his neck to come and find you." Porthos heard those words again in his mind, those insults. But something was wrong, his Aramis would never say that. His Aramis would never speak his mind like that, he would never even think like that. Something was wrong. Porthos scowled, if anyone had messed with his brother…

* * *

Aramis glared at the new recruit. He was eager for the attention of the older man. His name was Jaques, and he had come from a noble background. He strutted around the garrison like he owned it. He lived in a big house in the centre of Paris. He was small and quick. He thought he was the best swordsman in the world. Aramis hated him. He once saw him kicking a beggar for the fun of it. Treville had stressed that they could never replace Porthos, that they were only filling up the ranks. He's going to get commissioned soon. He hasn't worked for it, the King just wants to please his father. He didn't deserve to walk around here, he never would. Aramis missed Porthos. He missed his presence, his comforting hands, his murmured reassurances. He missed his brother. And he hated that boy because he wasn't Porthos. Because that only reminded him that his brother would never fight beside him again.

Jaques turned and strutted towards the older man. Aramis tipped his hat down on his head and looked at the floor. "I challenge you to a duel of swords." The boy spoke richly, pronouncing every syllable self-importantly. Aramis turned to Porthos with a smile on his lips, but his eyes only met an empty space. Porthos would never sit there again, he'd never laugh at posh recruits being put in their place with him again. He never laugh with him again. Porthos was gone.

He could hear the boy tapping his foot, and wrenched his eyes away from the empty seat beside him. The boy said something about a duel. Aramis let his tired eyes rise to the boy, and saw the way his eyes danced with eagerness. He wanted to beat Aramis, not to learn. The boy just wanted to win. Aramis remembered the day Porthos stepped into the Garrison for the first time.

He had intrigued Aramis, the way he wore ripped dirty clothes but had an air of pride around him. He was asked by Treville to train the large man. In the corner of the Garrison, Aramis had tried to teach the man all he knew. The man was an attentive student, who was eager to learn. Aramis would win all their duels, whether it was sword or musket. But real life is different, and there are many ways to win a fight. On a hunch, Aramis had said they could duel like it was real, no rules. They set against each other, and within seconds Porthos' sword was lying a few feet away from him. The large man had ginned crookpedly at him, and suddenly the world seemed to have turned upside down. He was lying on the floor, being held down by the man. Porthos had helped him up and grinned apologetically. Aramis had noticed Treville's knowing smirk out of the corner of his eye. Porthos was the only man he had ever met who seemed more dangerous without a weapon. They had became friends, then brothers.

Some people judged Porthos by where he grew up or the colour of his skin. They were wrong. He may not be proud of his past, but the present is all Aramis cares about.

The boy is still standing there. "Go away." The boys face flushes red, and his his mouth opens and closes. He struts away. Porthos would comment on him, and they would laugh. But Porthos is gone. Porthos doesn't have a future anymore, and it's all his fault.


	3. Bruises and Nightmares

**I don't own these people!**

A roar fills the room. It takes Porthos a few seconds to realise it's coming from him. The whip bites into the flesh of his back, causing another roar to leave his chest. Aramis. Athos. Treville. Flea. Charon. Aramis. Athos. He filled his mind with their faces. It wasn't a whip, it was Aramis stitching him up. Soon Aramis would punch him in the arm and tell him to be more careful next time. And Athos would appear with wine. Soon. Another lash causes a groan. He'd long since given up suffering in silence, noise meant you were alive. It showed the prisoners in the cell next door he was still fighting. Not broken yet. He could stop the lashes by telling the man with the whip what he knew. That was the worst part. Aramis. Athos. Treville. Flea. Charon. France. Aramis. Flea. France. Aramis. France. He was doing it for them. He wasn't going to break down for them. For Aramis. He was going to stay strong.

When the lashes finally pause, Porthos had counted about fifty. It was the first time he'd had the whip, and it would scar. His captor was growing frustrated, his prisoners hadn't broken yet. He knew he got the worst, and that was good. He wouldn't want anyone else to get that treatment. He cared about them all now, but that's happens when you see someone at their worst. It makes you want to see them at their best. The man scowled at him before his men came in and escorted him out of the room, away from the table of torture. He was too injured to fight, and there were too many of them. They threw him in the cell, but two men caught him and carried him over to the wall. There was a pile of hay to sleep on there. The woman with red hair gently lay him on his back, wrapping a strip of fabric tightly around his chest. She buttoned his shirt over the makeshift bandage and went to leave, but turned back and whispered in his ear, "Stay strong." Sleep made his eyelids heavy, and his last thought before closing his eyes was a silent prayer he was too tired for the nightmares tonight. Sadly it was not to be.

He dreamt of Aramis, crying in front of an open grave. The grave was of crumbling stone, and the words read: 'Here lies Porthos, Musketeer and brother.' He opened his mouth but no sound came out, he tried desperately to walk forward, to comfort his brother. But Aramis turned his head, his hat tipping to reveal a laughing skull. Fire was burning in his hollow eyes, his mouth stretched in a deathly grin. A hole appeared in front of Porthos, and though he clawed at the soil surrounding it he fell in. An open coffin laid open, waiting for him. It slammed shut over him. The world went black. He lashed out with his hands, his feet, but nothing moved. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. He was going to die. Maybe he was already dead. Maybe it was better that way.

He woke up in a cold sweat, the skeleton face blurry, a dim reminder of the terrors of the night. He always felt guilty for breaking down, in his nightmares he could never do it. He always ended up giving up. When he saw Athos die in a thousand different, gruesome ways, when he saw the Court burn, when he saw anything happen to Aramis. Anything bad at all. He needed to get out of here so he could protect his brother again. He needed to keep him safe.

A hand was tapping him on the shoulder. He looked up at the man, tall with a nose that had been broken at one point in his youth. Porthos could hear men outside. Sick, drunken laughter. He looked around to see who the source of their mirth was, and dread clutched at his throat. The woman with red hair was gone. The door opened, light escaping past the broad soldiers of two men. She was pushed onto the floor, and with one last guffaw, the door shut, the lock clicking into place. There was a flurry of movement as those who could walk went to help her, carrying her to the pile of straw and laying her on it. Red hot fury flooded his veins as the source of the sick laughter was revealed. The side of the woman's face was black and blue, her left eye swollen shut. Bruises in various shades almost covered her arms and her lip was bleeding. His vision was tinted red. He felt her hand on his arm, her nails digging in. "Stay strong." Her lips barely moved, and her words were hoarse, but you could tell everyone was clinging to those words.

In the cells life was hard. And sometimes you felt like giving up. But you have to stay strong.

* * *

The cards were curved at the edges. They had spent most of their life up a sleeve. Porthos had purchased them from the market when they had first met. His card tricks had impressed countless women since Porthos had sat down and taught Aramis. How to slip a card into the hand, to hold two cards together so they look like one. The two of them sat at a table with a bottle of wine as Porthos beat him every time. Porthos would sigh at his attempted poker face and tilt his friend's hand back so the cards couldn't be seen. Then he'd laugh and take a swig of wine and start again. Even ale reminded Aramis of him. He'd tried to drown his guilt in drink but the bar owner recognised him and asked after his large friend. He left without saying a word. Now he sat on the windowsill, his face pressed up against the glass. He held a bottle in his hand. He took a swig, but the ale was bitter in his mouth. He once heard of a soldier who had failed to rescue a drowning man. The sea gods had punished him by turning food and drink into ashes the second they touched his mouth. He had laughed before, but now, in the dim moonlight, that tale seemed true. He couldn't eat without throwing it back up again. Every drink turned stale when it touched his lips. Alcohol had always welcomed him, but now there seemed to be no escape. He put the bottle on the table. He half expected Porthos to come barreling in and help himself to the still full bottle. But the house was silent. He settled on his bed, then lay, for the first time in a long while. He could almost feel the night terrors hovering at the back of his mind, ready to take centre stage. He closed his eyes, and sleep welcomed him as an old friend.

He was tired. The world seemed to be blurring and spinning. He looked forward to the inn. It had been too long since he had last encountered a bed. But it was already evening, and they were no where near their cosy inn and warm meal. He could just make out the distorted image of Porthos, only hearing a few words. "Sorry…map…lost…horses…tired…make camp." Make camp. Again. His head was throbbing and he felt sick. Porthos had been standing there. Just standing. And Aramis didn't know why the words came flooding out of his mouth but they did. And he regretted it as soon as the look of hurt crossed his brother's face. As Athos shook his head, not quite believing what he had just heard. They had heard hoofbeats striking the floor, twigs cracking under them. Suddenly armed me were upon them with fists and swords. He and Athos had kept their side up well, slicing and stabbing. Then the enemies were gone, their corpses surrounding the two of them. They looked towards the noise and saw a ring of men surrounding their friend. And even as they joined the fight they knew it was already too late to save him.

Aramis woke. He knew the next time he lay down his head he would relive that battle again. He lit a candle and stared into the flickering light for a moment. Then he raised his hands to the light and saw a speck of blood. The blood wouldn't come off. He rubbed and scraped and scrubbed to no use. The speck of blood multiplied until it covered his hands. He knew it wasn't his own. He knew that he had Porthos' blood on his hands. Just like he knew it would never go away.


	4. A Prayer and a Bottle of Pain

Someone was shouting in his ear. Their mouth was unpleasantly close to the side of his face, their putrid breath curling round to his nose. He felt the familiar metal cuffs around his wrists, and realised with a start he was lying shirtless on the stone table. He must have fallen asleep. His captor didn't look pleased. He didn't look very pleased at all. The man pressed down on his left wrist, before wrapping his hand around Porthos's index finger. A grim smile replaced the scowl, and Porthos heard a crack. The pain shot up his arm, a red hot poker making the blood boil in his veins. His broken finger stuck up at an awkward angle. It was his shooting hand. Pulling on a trigger would be hard. He'd have to get Aramis to shoot the bad guys for him. He wasn't the best shot anyway, this might just improve his aim.

He watched the man stride over to the instruments, pausing before them. He let his hand hover dramatically over each one. After a while Porthos gave up and glanced towards the door. If he was in the cell opposite and they managed to kill the guards… The man's footsteps were drawing near, holding in his hand a knife. Porthos stifled a yawn, he hadn't slept for many nights now. Unfortunately the man noticed. Pain exploded from his right leg as the sharp knife sank into the space above his knee. An inhuman roar echoed around the cell as the knife made it's journey down towards his ankle. Porthos tried to slow his breathing, taking deep breaths. He hoped some of his cuts were healed before Aramis saw him. He could just imagine the look on his friend's face if he could see him now. His breath hitched in his throat at the thought. He didn't want to cause his brother pain. He'd die before anything happened to him. The man bandaged him up so he wouldn't lose blood. It would be a disaster for them if he died from infection. A disaster.

That night he prayed. He prayed that Athos wasn't drinking too much. That he got home safely from the bar. That Flea was doing alright at the Court. That Aramis wasn't taking his absence too hard. That nobody blamed themselves. Aramis' face swam into his mind. He bowed his head and closed his eyes and really prayed. He prayed Aramis was safe. That he was unharmed. That he'd got back to Paris safely. That Treville was giving him some time off. That Aramis didn't think he was dead. That his brother didn't blame himself. He thought of the insults before the battle, of the slow, sluggish way he was fighting. Suddenly it was crystal clear: his brother had been poisoned. That's why Aramis had acted aggressively, he was confused. Please lord, let him be alright. Please.

* * *

Athos had not mourned his brother yet. He could not sink back into that world of misery and drink. Not when he had just left. So he sat in the bar, ready to escort his friend home. And he would defend and protect Aramis until the day he died. And he knew he wasn't good enough. He knew Aramis wished it was the other way around. That Porthos was sitting there. But Aramis would never say it, even in his worst moments. Athos wrapped an arm around the drunken man's soldier, pulling him up. He laid him down in Aramis' bed and removed his hat, before struggling to pull his boots off. Aramis looked at him, his eyes bottomless pits of sorrow. He'd never seen a man look so broken. And it broke his heart. Porthos and Aramis had forced their way in his ice cold heart, and right as they started to get it working again, they smashed it in two. And a little piece shattered every time he looked at broken Aramis, or the chair that Porthos would never sit on again. He doesn't let people see his pain, he builds a wall. But he knows his walls a paper thin, and one day they'd tear. And when that day comes they would never be able to be built again.

His apartment is cold and empty, an untouched beer bottle standing on the table. He was too tired to drink. He couldn't just abandon Aramis, lose himself in the bottle again. Porthos would have wanted someone to look after his friend. Porthos would have wanted it. Nobody needed to know he was aching inside. Nobody needed to know how weak he was. He was a failure. He had set off on that mission with two brothers. He had returned home with one. And the deepest fear in Athos' shattered heart was that he would start next month on his own. A selfish fear. A fear that Aramis would enter the next kingdom by his own hand. A fear that Athos would wait for Aramis outside his door, and he would never come. A fear that he would have to face this terrifying world on his own.

Athos tossed and turned, dreaming of Aramis pressing a gun to his own head, and of Porthos reaching out his hand to meet him, but a sword penetrated through his stomach. When he woke he felt their blood on his face still. Aramis had fallen asleep after too many drinks, but the ale did nothing to dull the pain of his nightmares. He knew what was coming even as he slipped into unconsciousness.

His movements were slow and sluggish, his sword moving too slowly. Athos stabbed and slashed, his sword a blur beside him. Aramis felt like he was going to be sick, and it felt like someone was taking a hammer to his head, as if trying to escape from the inside. His eyes burned and blurred, coming in and out of focus in short bursts. There was one man left, and Porthos nodded at Athos, his eyes telling the other man to tend to Aramis. He knew he should tell him that he was fine, but he could only groan as Athos sat him down. He peered over him, a look of worry flashing over his face. There was a flurry of movement from behind him, twigs cracking under dozens of feet. Athos looked up, and yelled, trying to get up. He saw a hand land on Athos' chest, then he was lying over him, shielding his body, shielding his eyes. Aramis pushed his hands out the way and heard the bang of a gun. The gun was smoking, the body underneath it lying so still. Then the body was heaved onto a horse and they we're gone. Athos got of him, but Aramis barely noticed. Porthos was dead. Porthos was dead. Porthos was dead.

Every night Aramis relived the last moments of his friends life. Every morning Aramis woke up and wished it had been him instead. The pain didn't grow duller. The hand on Athos' chest, pushing him back. Porthos had died to save him. Porthos was dead. Porthos was dead.


	5. A Gun and an Ache

**I don't own any of ****these characters. **

**Thank you for all the reviews, you really inspire me to keep writing.**

They'd been over every escape plan. They couldn't get out. His captors were getting restless, with no information for whoever they were working for. They had grown angry, the torture less drawn out. It was raining and cold the first day. The guards had come in and grabbed the bandaged man, as if to take him to the Table. They had held his unresisting body between them. And another guard shot him in the back of the head. Bang. Just like that. And he wasn't alive anymore. His blood splattered the floor. He felt distant, like he had left his own body and was flying above it. Someone was screaming. It was the bruised woman. They had been close. Porthos remembered them on his first day here. Taken together. He'd heard someone say he was her butler. Something like that. He was moving towards the body, his movements robotic. He didn't seem to have control of his limbs. He picked the man up, a lifeless doll in his arms, and lay him in a corner. The bruised woman wailed by his body. He didn't try to comfort her. It wouldn't help her. He just sat beside her, doing his best to be there for her. He lay down and closed his eyes.

He dreamed of the bandaged man being held between the soldiers. The bullet entering his head. In his dream he was the one shooting. He stood and watched the woman mourn the man. She looked up, and her face morphed into Aramis', the bruises remaining. He stared at Porthos and whispered, "You killed him." The whisper grew into a cry, getting louder and louder till the words were pounding in his brain, slicing into him. / The nightmares returned every night, the face of the dead man changing into Aramis or Athos or somebody else. The next day they killed the man with the once broken nose. The day after that they killed the man who kept telling everyone about his Alice, and how they had just married. Alice is a widow now.

The torture remains, the knife slicing into his skin, the whip biting into the flesh of his back. But the pain was a welcome alternative to the hell inside his head. The number of prisoners was becoming less and less. They killed the man with three teeth in total. They killed the elderly man who had wanted to see his grandchildren one more time. He would never get that chance. They were innocent people. They were strong. They could stop it in an instant, but they choose to face death and pain every day. Porthos was surrounded by heroes. And nobody would ever know.

* * *

Aramis looked around, trying to slow his heartbeat. He breathed in and out, in and out. It was the first time in nearly three months Treville had let him and Athos out of the city, and Aramis wasn't going to fail him by having a breakdown. Even if the trees seemed to be painted with his brothers blood, every clearing casting demon shadows on the dry soil underneath. They reached out for him, stretching to pull him down to hell. His horse moved a little faster. Their mission was simple enough, find the woman who had run away from her husband. They said she was fragile, that she wouldn't have traveled far. That she would be grateful to be escorted back to her merchant life. They were following the way they suspected she'd gone, but it was already dark. They set up camp, silence hanging thick in the air. Jaques was accompanying them. He was where Porthos should be, coming with them. He chattered constantly, complaining mostly. He whined about the cold, and the food, and his sore muscles after riding, he complained that his horse was temperamental, about the rain, about the mud, about the lack of fine wine. Porthos was always grateful, joking, looking on the bright side. He'd never complain, he was just thankful he got the chance. Jaques made Aramis sick. With his stupid walk and his stupid laugh. He thought he was as good as Porthos, he thought he could take his place. Athos made stew and handed it out, and Aramis ate without tasting and tried to tune out Jaques. He focused on the loom of anger on Athos' face, heard the words, "If it's so bland, and the texture is unstatisfactory," he was advancing on the frightened boy, pressing his face up close, "Why don't you just go?" The boy let out a sound that reminded Aramis of a pig's squeal and stumbled backwards. Most people only ever see Athos angry once, then steer clear. Snuffling, the boy lay down. Athos grabbed his soldier and pulled him up, "You're taking first watch, boy."

Aramis dreamt of their past. There was Porthos, striding in with a quiet dignity despite his ragged clothes. Them sparring, with swords and with fists. If it was the latter, Porthos always won. Drinking in a bar when some thugs had started to insult Porthos because of his past, his skin colour. Then Porthos tending to him the next day, telling him off for rising to it. But then he'd shook his head and laughed and Aramis knew he was forgiven. The day Athos first rode into the Garrison, the two friends deciding to get to know him, and managing to break past the frosty exterior. The three of them going on a mission together, and becoming brothers. Aramis pushed the bigger man out of the path of a bullet. Porthos taking a bullet in the soldier for Aramis. The laughs they shared during missions. Their attempts at making the other smile while injured. Countless scoldings from Treville, just managing to hold in the laughs until they got outside. Aramis perfecting his stitches, mainly on his brothers endless injuries. Them drinking together, them crying together, them bleeding together. Together. Together.

Aramis awoke from his dreams when the boy shook him, instinctively lashing out. He felt the boys face under his fist, and a wave of satisfaction rolled through him. He didn't apologise. He sat watching the forest around him, trying to ignore the shadows of great clawed creatures that lingered just out of his sight. Porthos wasn't around anymore. He let the tears slip out of his eyes. He was gone. Just gone. Images from his dreams resurfaced, drifting to the front of his mind. It hadn't been a nightmare, not really. But in some ways it was worse. Because he didn't wake up with a cold sweat and a racing heart. It was just an ache. In his dreams he had relived the good times with his brothers, when it was just them against the world. And now he just ached. There wasn't a stabbing pain where his heart was anymore. Just a dull ache. He was tired of crying, tired of holding back the tears. And he ached for his brother. He ached for the good times they had that they would never have again. He ached for the bad times made better by sharing the pain. He ached for his brother, he ached for the weight of world of his soldiers. It was nearly three hellish months till he died. And Aramis had carried that burden on his soldiers that whole time. And he couldn't do it anymore.

He woke Athos up. He lay back down and closed his eyes, his heart heavy. He felt the grief wearing him down. And one day it would win.


	6. A Whip and Dog's Scraps

**I don't own any characters.**

**Reviews inspire me to write.**

The whip seems the man's new favourite choice. That and the shouting. He shouted constantly in Porthos' ear. He seemed to think it would make him break, he was wrong. Every time the whip came down he thought of Aramis. He thought of his friend to stop him going insane. Soon the whip stopped. His back burned, half the skin been removed by the cruel whip. It wasn't the first time. He'd been whipped before. He used to protect the vulnerable women in the Court. The Red Guards didn't take kindly to it. It was easier now he wasn't hungry.

The whip had stopped. A bandage wrapped around him, his captor making sure to put as much weight as possible on his injured back. He hadn't given in. He allowed a wave of pride to wash through him, he wasn't going to break down. But as he was escorted back to the cell his spirits plummeted. It was silent and empty. They'd usually all be talking, moving around, reassuring each other. But it just felt empty. The people who'd usually be bustling around, bandaging people as well as they can weren't there anymore. And their absence was painfully clear. The team spirit has evaporated away, and all that's left now is the hard slog, the final stretch. And for some people, the finishing line was a bullet in the head. When they wouldn't have to suffer on anymore.

They beat the woman beside him. They knew it broke him more than when they punched him. She looked no more than thirty, her features sharp and her skin smooth. They didn't want to kill her just yet. Not when she was his only weakness. The knowledge that she was getting hurt because of him made him angry. Angry at himself, his captors, the whole of France. She was stronger than she looked, and still murmured those words. Stay strong. And he would stay strong. He wouldn't crumble. He wouldn't break down. He wouldn't give in. He would do it for Athos, for Flea, for Charon, for Treville, for France. He would do it for Aramis. And he would never let them down.

They chose the blind man today. He didn't know what was going on. Looked around wildly as his captors picked him up. The look of terror on his face. He didn't know what was about to happen, he didn't understand. Then the gun went off, and his vacant eyes rolled up into his head. He slumped to the floor. They lifted him out. There's no record of him here anymore. Like he never existed. No record of him and the death that didn't need to happen. Not to him.

He sat in silence and looked around. People moved silently, hugging the walls, trying not to draw attention. Their faces were haggard, exhaustion and hunger making their eyes sunken and their faces pale. The horror that they witnessed made their eyes wide, the torture making them flinch away from sudden noises. The bruised woman walked among them. She stood tall, murmuring her message to the people she passed. Stay strong. The message ingrained itself on his mind. Stay strong. Stay strong for the people who his cruel captors murdered. Stay strong for the King. Stay strong for your family. Stay strong for your friend. How could two little words mean so much? Stand for so much bravery through so much heartache. Represent the people who watched their friends die, but still held their tongues when tortured. Stand for the true heroes.

* * *

In his head Aramis would turn his horse so that it would push Jaques of the hill. He would accidentally shoot him, thinking he was an intruder. He would accidentally send him into a bear cave. Accidentally push him into a river. It would be an accident. Anything to stop his moaning. He was hungry it seemed. They hadn't been able to hunt anything where they had camped. He hadn't stopped complaining since. Aramis suddenly thought of Porthos, and his past. A sword went through his heart. He could feel it piercing his chest and coming out the other side. It left his gasping for air. Athos had noticed, levelling his horse with Aramis' so he would catch him if he went unconscious.

Porthos had never really spoken about his past, only saying he had come from the Court. That was until, Aramis had saved a little bread and meat for the mangy dog that seemed to follow them around. He had lived a sheltered life, in a quiet little farming village. He hadn't known of the horrors of growing up with nothing on the streets of Paris. Never thought of a child eating what the rats left behind, going without food for days. Of not knowing if your friends will survive the ice of the Winter, or the diseases of the Summer. Not knowing if you will. Porthos had told him that day. Told him that he was one of those children once. What he would've given for a crust of bread and a scrap of meat. He would never complain about being hungry. He would be looking on the bright side, making jokes and laughing. Saying they had warm clothes and blankets. Saying they had each other for company and muskets for protection. His optimism had got Aramis through many the cold night and trying mission.

And it never would again. Never would they sit by the fire, swapping stories. Never would they laugh, never would they pull jokes on unsuspecting Musketeers and sit calmly and watch it all unfold. Never again would he stitch up his friend, would he drink with his friend, would he lose at cards with his friend. Because his friend was gone.

He wasn't on a horse anymore. He was lying on the ground, trying to stop his shallow breaths. A concerned Athos kneels over him. He doesn't want concern. Concern won't bring Porthos back. Won't magic Jaques away, and replace him. Won't make ache go away. Concern couldn't help him. Nothing could. He got up, holding his horse until the world stopped spinning. He mounted again, and started to ride. Athos joined him. Jaques' horse was galloping to keep up. The blade was still there, protruding from his chest. The speck of blood was still on his hands. His heart was still heavy. And he ached for his friend to return.


	7. A Chance For Freedom

**I don't own any characters. **

**I might stop this fic. I don't know.**

It was only the two of them now. Him and the bruised woman. They had killed a young man. He had a life ahead of him, and they tore it away. He was on his way to Paris. Going to enrol as a soldier. He would marvel at Porthos's stories. Wanted to be just like him. Made a role modal of him. Then he had watched as the young man died. And he had struggled till they restrained him. But it wasn't enough. Because that man had trusted him, had idolised him, and now his blood stained the floor red. He had a mother and a father, probably a sweetheart waiting for him. Big dreams, dreams that can never happen. A good man. A dead man.

Porthos was tired.

He was tired of being hungry and thirsty. Tired of the hard stone floors, and the smell of blood and sweat and tears. Tired of his friends shot at dawn just for being loyal to their country. Tired of the guards's cutting remarks about his skin colour and where he came from. Tired of not being able to do anything at all to stop them and to save the people around him. Tired of waiting for the rescuers that could never come. Tired of the bite of the whip on his back, of the knife drawing grim pictures on his skin./ He wanted out./ Porthos stared at the door, calculating his escape. It was impossible. He would die trying. Maybe it would be easier that way.

The men dragged him out, pressing the rough fabric of his shirt into his ripped, raw back. He is tied to the table, like he has been every day for the past three months. His captor ceased with the question long ago. Then the whip hits him./ It burns into his back, opening other scars that have just healed. And inhuman roar rips from his chest, vibrating through his throat and into the air. The whip keeps coming down. He could hear the sound of it hitting the flesh of his back. He could feel his blood running onto the table, hear it dripping onto the floor. Just like his first day hear. When he had opened his eyes and heard something dripping. He'd never found out what it was. He knew now. The pain burned into his back. You could ignore it. It had happened so many times the pain seemed almost commonplace. So many times. You can swallow the pain. If you try hard enough. Think of things that make you want to carry on. Like his brothers. Think of Aramis every time the whip separates another piece of skin from his back. Aramis. The look on his face when he was beaten in a duel. Aramis. The ridiculous feather in his hat. Aramis. The look of concentration on his face when he sewed somebody up. Thinking of him was painful, but it kept him sane. As sane as possible in this place.

What seemed like hours later he was sitting back in his cell. A fresh bandage wrapped tightly round his stomach and chest. The woman bustling around. Bandaging someone up, trying to set broken bones as well as she could. He should probably be helping. But pain exploded from his back every time he moved. He wouldn't get far. So he sat. He sat and rested his head against the wall and stared at the door. There were moving shadows. Then he started to hear it.

Clashing swords. Desperate yells. Gun shots.

They were here. Just like he knew they would be.

The Musketeers.

One for all and all for one.

Till the very end.

* * *

They had been riding for two days, and his muscles were aching. The activity had been productive for something though. He had stopped wallowing in the misery of Porthos's death, if purely because he had something to do. Scouting, cooking, polishing his weapons, riding, sleeping. Something to do. Even if they had to drag Jaques along with them. And everything reminded him of Porthos. It was easier to ignore the gaping hole in his heart, if he wasn't allowed to sit in his room all day. So they set off, riding so that a forest was on their left and a huge mountain on their right. They had been galloping for a few hours already when Aramis reigned in his horse, Athos doing the same beside him. Something was wrong. It was too still, too silent. Memories of a Savoy came crashing in, the dreadful silence before the first gunshot. There should be birds chirping in the trees, woodland creatures rustling in the soil, trees whispering with the wind. But there was just silence, the entire forest holding it's breath. But what for?

His thoughts were disturbed by a horse galloping forward. Jaques. Of course. He rode on dauntlessly, ignoring the looks the older men gave him. "Who's there?" His perfect speech rose over the silent trees, met by silence. Aramis made his horse trot forward, advancing towards the irritating boy. Before he and Athos could shush the boy, he spoke again. "Show yourself at once or face death." It's not a good idea to threaten unseen enemies. But it's an even worst idea to shoot at them. So of course that's the first thing the boy did.

Suddenly a hidden door in the side of a mountain burst open, a shot firing from within at the arrogant boy. He yelled and shot of his horse, landing hard on the soil. He leaped up and started to run, only to come into contact with a very unfortunately placed branch. His shouts of terror were certainly a lot higher as he raced away, into the distance. As he ran Athos reached down and caught him, refusing to let him go until he removed his armour. He was a coward, and so no longer a Musketeer. They shared a look, before continuing towards the barely visible door. There were armed guards, and first took out and cocked their muskets. They approached with caution, edging in from the sides. The guards had shot to kill a Musketeer, and it was their duty to arrest them. They should probably call for recruits. But they hadn't been in action for so long, and they were thirsty for adventure again. Even if Porthos couldn't fight beside them.

They charged forward, throwing the door open and running in, swords already drawn to block the clumsy slashes thrown at them. The guards had been taken by surprise, and soon lay unconscious on the floor. Many more guards ran down the dingy corridor, only to meet the barrels on the musketeer's guns and the points of their swords. Adrenaline rushed through Aramis as he blocked and swung and stabbed. He looked around searching for his friends. Athos was making progress in the corner, and Porthos…

No, he couldn't think like that, not now. Mourning for later. For now he had to try and survive long enough to live again. Try and survive full stop.


	8. A Table of Torture and a Bullet

**I don't own anything, let alone the Musketeers.**

The door slammed open, the corpse of a soldier rolling in. The man had been shot in the stomach, and looked long dead. Porthos tried to leap up, but his back exploded in agony and black clouded his vision. He leaned against the wall, trying to keep his breathing as level as possible. In. Out. In. Out. The pain made the cell walls spin around him. He was chained to the wall. The skin around his wrists and ankles had been rubbed of, making blood run down onto his hands. Every muscle ached, his broken fingers causing him stabbing pain every time he moved. He swore under his breath. He was barefoot, and his limbs were littered with cuts and bruises. He felt sick. He wretched, but there wasn't anything in his stomach to bring up. His palms were clammy, sweat running down his face from the effort of staying awake. He tried to stand up straight, only partially resting against the wall. Even that was hard. He couldn't last much longer. He might die from his injuries.

The bruised woman appeared in front of him, smiling a smile he hadn't seen before. Before he had thought she would've been beautiful if it wasn't for the bruise. Now he thought she was beautiful with it. She laughed, and it looked like she was releasing all the pain and all the worry. He lifted her up and smiled at her. She hugged him, her head only coming to his chest, being careful of his bleeding back. Adrenaline coursed through him, the pain momentarily forgotten. The fighting had stopped, silence and the rescuers had won. They were going to be saved. Nobody else had to die.

Then the man lying on the floor looked up. He raised his pistol and fired. The bruised woman slumped against him. Her blood stained his shirt. He lay her down on the floor. The bullet had hit her in the chest, and there was so much blood. She would die here. The finest physicians in Paris couldn't save her now. It wasn't fair. Not now. Not when she had survived Hell. Not when they only made it because of her. Her life was bleeding out. She clutched at his fist, her hand tiny against his. "Stay strong." Her voice was hoarse. It seemed fitting they were her last words. Then her heart stopped beating. His tears mixed with hers. She had died in front of him. And he didn't even know her name.

He slumped down next to her. Black was clouding his vision. His head rested next to hers. How was it fair that he should survive and she shouldn't? How was any of this fair? He felt conscienceless slipping away, when he felt a hand under his head. Aramis. He was crying, tears flooding down his face. Porthos tried to force a smile. Aramis only cried more. "Stay with me Porthos, stay with me. Don't sleep, come on." His voice sounded far away, littered with great, gasping sobs. The look on his face was unmistakable. He looked broken. Porthos had been in this situation too many times to know he was going to sleep soon no matter what. But he didn't want his friend to feel like that, feel that pain, that sorrow. So he said the only thing he could think of before he fell unconscious.

"Stay strong."

* * *

Aramis raised his sword to block the man's, before wrenching it to the side and bringing the hilt of his sword down on the man's head. He stepped over the body and brought his musket hard on the back of the next man's head. They were trying to knock out instead of kill, but there were so many of them. It was hard to limit yourself when they fought to kill. Suddenly a man appeared behind him. He had leapt out a staircase, leading deeper into the mountain. The man stabbed at his back, and Aramis's hand shot out reflectively, firing a bullet into his stomach. He rolled down the stairs, leaving a splatter of blood in his wake. But another man tried to slice him with his sword, and Aramis forgot the secret staircase. He dispatched the man, before ducking into shade from the smattering of bullets. He raised his musket and fired towards the direction of the bullets. They stopped, so he must have hit him. He allowed himself a few breaths before leaping out into the fight again.

Soon they were all dispatched, and they started to search for more men they could question. Aramis searched a cell at the end, noticing the pools of blood on the floor and the manacles on the wall. He felt sick. He had no idea what this place was, but something seemed very wrong. There was a severed hand in the corner. Aramis wretched. What was this place? Athos was searching another cell. There were miles of high security cells, it would take them all night to search them all.

Then he heard a scream.

He raced back towards the cell it came from, musket raised and ready. He saw Athos, with his gun to the head of a quivering man, obviously the origin of the scream. The man was wearing a bloodstained apron, like that of a doctor. Aramis wrenched the gun out of Athos's hand. Athos's face was contorted with fury, his hands shaking with rage. "What's going on?" Athos didn't answer, just pointed towards a stone table in the middle. Aramis moved over, examining it. Blood was pooling on the surface and dripping of the edges, making his stomach churn. Manacles stuck out of the stone, placed for wrists and ankles. Athos nodded towards the opposite wall, his features stony. Aramis had only seen him this angry once before. And that time three Red Guards had not come out of it with all their limbs. Angry Athos was not a good thing to be around. Ever.

Aramis looked at the wall Athos was indicating. The wall was covered in hundreds of different weapons: knives, swords, pistols, saws, and even a whip. Most of them were rusty and blood/ stained, indicating recent use. It was clear what the table was used for.

Torture.

Aramis felt anger rising up his chest, bursting like a volcano. He grabbed the man by the scruff of the neck, repeatedly punching him in the stomach, before dropping his unconscious body onto the floor. Athos passed him, taking Aramis's arm and leading him out. He kicked the man in the ribs for good measure.

"There are people who survived, there must be. We have to find them." Athos was trying to keep his voice level, and failing miserably. Without speaking another word, they split off down the dingy corridor, their boots clipping along the floor. Aramis remembered the hidden staircase, and set off down them. A gun shot fired below him, and he increased to a sprint. He arrived at the dimly lit cell, and saw a body on the floor. The soldier he had shot. He could see two bodies lying on the floor, one of a woman with a bruise and one…/  
No. He was dreaming. He had to be.

His legs carried him over, till he knelt beside the man. Porthos. His brother opened his eyes slowly, every breath a tremendous effort. Aramis cradled his head, shouting out the words. "Stay with me Porthos, stay with me. Don't sleep, come on." His voice broke at the end, a great, gasping sob leaving his chest. Porthos looked up at him, then, his voice raspy and weak, but his brother's all the same, said:

"Stay strong."

Before he closed his eyes and went limp in his arms. He was still breathing, but barely. "Athos!" His voice was ragged, and loud. "Athos!" Athos pounded down the stairs. He froze at the bottom when he saw Porthos, only moving when he noticed his unsteady breaths. They lay him down and got him as comfortable as possible. He was injured, and in so much pain, but he was alive.

Alive.

And he was going to stay that way.


	9. A Scratchy Mattress

**I don't own a single musketeer.**

Porthos's head pounded, every limb aching. Nearby he could hear man's heartbroken sobbing, a sound full of guilt and regret. There was a tapping, the sound of metal striking wood. There was a scratchy, thin mattress under his bare back. He tried to move, but only let out a moan of pain. His eyes refused to open, eyelids seeming to be glued down. Suddenly there were hands on him, checking his temperature, putting a damp cloth on his forehead. "It's okay, it's okay, that' sit, you're safe, you're with us now." Aramis. His voice sounded broken, empty without his laughing tones. Porthos reached up, trying to conceal the pain rocketing down his stretching skin. He grabbed on to Aramis arm, grunting with pain. He peeled his eyes open, recognising his friend's blurry face. Athos was on the other side, his features stony. He was angry, and for a second Porthos wondered why. Then Aramis turned to face him and he forgot his questions. He could barely recognise his friend. He was thin, lack of sleep making his features haggard. His eyes were red and swollen, purple underneath. His mouth was sunken, his bottom lip bleeding. He chewed his lip when he was worried. The fact that Aramis looked like that because of him felt like someone had plunged a dagger in his heart and was twisting it. Though Porthos knew, if it. Had been the other way round and he had thought Aramis had been killed, he would look the same. If he had survived to this point. Then darkness started entering the corners of his vision, and he slipped away into the pitch black.

Aramis sat down next to Porthos, whose hand still rested on the other man's. Aramis moved his arm closer to the bed, trying not to pull on the stitching. The neat stitching that covered Porthos's skin. Every limb. His head. His chest. His hands. The soles of his feet. His back. They hadn't punctured any vital organs. That was the worst thing, the fact that it was measured, chosen for maximum pain. The fact that they had carried on slicing long after the man they were working on had fallen unconscious. Purely because they were evil. And they enjoyed breaking him. But he hadn't broken. He had stayed strong, kept his mouth shut for his king and country. The country which looked on blindly as he grew up in the upmost poverty. The country that forgot about the hell that slaves went through for profit. The king who was young and foolish and spent the people's taxes on expensive clothes. Porthos had gone through torture. Had felt a blade slice his skin open, a whip bite into his back. Had waited hopefully everyday for his friends to return and save him from that place. The friends who never arrived. Until it was too late. And everyone else had died. What would have happened if that woman hasn't died? The woman with the bruise stretching across her face. What would have happened if she hadn't taken the bullet? If it had pierced Porthos's heart and not hers? It hurt to think about it. Hurt like a bullet had pierced his chest. And he was bleeding out. But he was letting go of the grief. Now he could see light at the end of the tunnel. And that glimpse made him even more determined. They would make it. They would have to.

Aramis looked done at his work. He was holding a needle and a new spool of thread, the last one had run out. Porthos was laying unconscious in front of him. They had managed to flip him over onto his front. He had struggled and yelled, no doubt reliving the torture in his dreams. He had awoken once, and only moaned in pain and grabbed Aramis's arm. Then he'd fallen back again. Before they had hastily bandaged him, but now the blood soaked bandages had been cut off. And the sight made his stomach churn. His back was soaked with too much blood, the only skin left raw and scabbed. Lines decorated what was left of his back, some overlapping and curving, while others were deadly straight. The marks had been left by a whip. A whip and a cruel mind. The whip arched up his back. In some places there wasn't enough skin to sew together. Aramis also found old, faded scars of the whip. Scars from his childhood. The Musketeer had grown up in poverty, and he was a mixed race child. When he was drunk, and someone approached him and begged him to tell stories, he would talk about his childhood. What he and his friends got up to, what others around him did. And sometimes, just sometimes, he would hint at the cruelty that surrounded him. The Red Guards who would walk the streets, doing what they wanted because nobody could stop them. Taking people to the cells because they didn't move fast enough. Trying to trample orphans with their horses. Throwing him in a cell overnight multiple times, sometimes for just being there. Was it really so unbelievable that they would take a young, hungry, mixed race boy and whip and beat him? Whip him till he went unconscious, then throw him in a cell for the night. Some monsters believe that these people aren't equal, don't deserve to live. They're wrong. Porthos is the greatest man Aramis had ever met. Without a doubt. And anyone who doesn't think he's equal just because his skin is a few shades darker is a fool.

He tried to patch his best friend together as best he could, but it wouldn't heal for many months yet. He would be bedridden. Athos had told Treville about Porthos. At the moment they were standing awkwardly at the door, casting a shadow on the floor. Porthos started to snore. He looked so innocent and peaceful. If you looked past the fresh scars and bruises decorating his face. Treville cleared his throat. "Aramis, how is he." The words were hesitant, and the Captain sounded different to what he normally did. Aramis hadn't really thought about how others would react, about Athos's heavier than normal drinking. Treville had been mourning too. The whole garrison had.  
"Awful. His back, it's the worst I've ever seen. There isn't even enough skin left to sew together in some places. The skins bruised. I don't…" With that his voice broke, and he ended with a sob. "I don't think he'll ever be the same again. What he went through, it…" He trailed off.

Athos took over, "We saw where it happened. The torture, it was almost systematical, deliberately causing the most pain. But he didn't speak. Didn't say a word." His features were stony, anger running just under the surface. It would burst soon, and Aramis felt sorry for anyone who got in his way when it did.

"Okay," Treville was trying to level his breathing. "At which point did the man escorting back, the man who did the torturing, break his left arm and right leg?"

Athos allowed himself the briefest smile. "The threw him off, he landed in an awkward position."

"He broke his nose, three fingers, left arm, right leg and jaw. He also sustained multiple bruises."

"It was a very awkward position."

"Right then, I suppose I should leave you in peace." Their Captain nodded at them, letting his gaze linger over Porthos's sleeping body. Then he spun in his heel and walked out.

Porthos let out a groan of pain, and his brothers rushed to hold him down. He struggled against them, but it wasn't the first time they had had to so this, and he was weak with pain. Then he stopped, the fit over. Aramis replaced the damp cloth on his forehead. Then he buried his head in his hands and let the tears flow. Athos continued his assault on the wooden figure he was attacking with his sword with renewed force.

It hurt them all to see their brother like this. It hurt.


	10. Until the End

**Finished.**

**I really love all reviews.**

**I loved writing this, thank you to all the followers, favourite-ers and reviewers.**

* * *

His back was on fire. Pain raced through his body, making his blood boil with a fire he hadn't known before. A roar ripped out of his mouth. A hand settled on his forehead, soon replaced by a cold, damp cloth. Porthos opened his eyes, his vision blurred with tears he hadn't known he had shed. Pain ripped through him, a constant ache centred in his back. A face appeared in front of him, dimly recognisable from another life. The features became clearer as he blinked, even that simple movement causing pain. Then it suddenly all became clear. Aramis. He was safe. He was home. He'd been rescued.

But he was the only one.

A sob racked through him, emptiness making him forget the pain. He sobbed again, and felt a hesitant hand against his. He held on with all his might, a lifeline. Aramis squeezed back. They were gone. They all were. They had died in front of him, they had suffered beside him, and he didn't even know their names. Not one. He didn't know where they lived, couldn't go to their funeral. They had family crying over them, or worse, frantically looking, trying to hold on to hope. Waiting for them at the end of their journeys, only for them to never come. They had families, wives, children. Then there was the woman. The woman with the bruise on her face. She had died and saved him. She was young, noble, the world at her feet. She had a life she would never get to live. They all did. Family they would never see again, family they hadn't had the chance to say goodbye to. What right did he possibly have to live when they couldn't?

He had come from the gutter, his mother had died when he was five years old. He abandoned the friends who took him in, left his childhood sweetheart in the hands of another. People still sneered at him, thought him unequal.

They always would.

Sobs racked through him, tears he had held for years flowing out. He hadn't cried for a long time. He hadn't cried when his mother died. He hadn't cried when he had left his brothers. He hadn't cried when he abandoned Flea, after he swore he would always keep her safe. He hadn't cried when he had been hurt countless times after that. It was a rough world for any son of a slave, and there was no room for weakness. But now the dams had broken, and there was nothing he could do to stop everything flowing out. He cried like he hadn't for a long time. He sobbed, feeling Aramis's hands holding him, great gasps not seeming to get quite enough air to his lungs. He sobbed for the agony in his back, he sobbed for the people who had died beside him. He cried for the woman who had breathed her last in his arms. He cried for the mother he had never known, for the friends he had left behind. He cried for the lady he could have loved. He cried for the life he just perhaps could have lived. He cried for the brothers who had welcomed him, who had been with him every dam step of the way. He cried for the relief of being out of that place, he cried for the relief of knowing he would never face that pain again, not on his own. He cried for his brothers, and his Captain, and the god dam country for saving him. He cried for the journey he had lived, and the journey still left to live.

When his eyes dried he lay against Aramis, not trusting himself to speak. Aramis apologised a thousand times, tears appearing in his own eyes. Porthos forgives him, doesn't even think about it. They sat in silence, just enjoying each other's company.

They had both suffered, and they would both take a while to recover. Porthos injured his bed rest with lots of wine and playing cards. Aramis sat by him, just absorbing his company. They sprung Athos out of the cell, Treville managing to convince the king that "The torturer must have felt terribly guilty and stabbed himself". Athos had never murdered a man in cold blood, and when Treville mentioned he only said that the torturer was not a man, he was a being of the devil. Porthos healed slowly, the scars fading. The scars on the mind do not heal so easily, but they had each other. The other to pick them up, to drink the worries away with, to sit and talk to from dusk till dawn to beat the nightmares. And Porthos does not hide his feelings any more, he doesn't force himself to be strong purely for survival. They are together now, and nothing would ever tear them apart.

They live. They fight, they drink, they get themselves in a thousand difficult situations and somehow survive it. They fall in love, and get their hearts broken, but they carry on. They are inseparable, until the end.

Until the very end.


End file.
